


The Lost Tale of the Entwives by Elanor the Fair

by sparklylulz (sparklyulz)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bonding, Canon Compliant, Discovery, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fun, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1410604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyulz/pseuds/sparklylulz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of 12, Elanor the Fair makes a discovery in The Old Forest that gives her an adventure all her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost Tale of the Entwives by Elanor the Fair

**Author's Note:**

> For my Tolkien seminar course, our big project was to construct a 15-20 page fanfiction piece that did not contradict Tolkien's text and wasn't romantic in nature. I decided to tackle Treebeard's offhand comment that the Entwives would love the Shire and the idea that there were walking trees spotted near Bree.
> 
> Forgive any typos or errors, I edited it pretty heavily, but I always miss something.

Summers in the Shire following the passing of Saurman bloomed anew in such a manner that had not been seen by Hobbit eyes since the old years by Shire Reckoning. Even old Bilbo’s fair-stretching memory could likely not recall such beauty. Always a land of harvesting and cultivating, after the evil shadow fell upon its borders, the Shire plunged into despair until hope drove back the evil forces and ushered in a new era.

The new trees and roots grew strong under the watchful and loving hand of Samwise. There was no better Hobbit in all of Middle Earth for the task, as it required much patience and an equal amount of work. Indeed, Rosie Cotton found herself sweeping dirt from her kitchen as often as it could be dragged in, whether by father or child.

Elanor, the eldest child of the Gardner family, resembled her mother in a great many ways; her soft blond curls fell around her shoulders evenly and her cheeks glowed with warmth, though she was taller and more slender than many Hobbit-lasses her age, in her heart she would always carry more of her father. Indeed, it was perhaps no secret in her family’s Hobbit hole that Elanor the Fair was the twinkle of her father’s eye. A common sight in the early Spring came in the form of father and daughter, dutifully tending to the wildflowers growing out front or even the fruit trees beginning to stir in the warmth of the sun.

Though the Shire had always been a fertile land to those who knew how to care for it, the field crops were not the only growing things which needed to be cared for following the Scouring.

“All things that grow are important in their own right, Elanorellë, even a weed.” Sam imparted this knowledge frequently, just as it had been handed down to him as a young Hobbit.

Samwise, who rightfully had more cause than most, taught his children early in their lives that the knowledge of a simple weed could be the difference between life and death. Elanor knew Mr. Frodo had been saved by Kingsfoil back in the dark days, and thus she never uprooted any living thing throughout her lifetime.

“Sam-dad, who did this before we were here?” She asked, her fair skin reddening under the heat of the sun, hands stained from the dirt now upturned for tomato sprouts to be planted.

Her father looked down at her sadly, but a soft smile still lined his face, “Well, I suppose my old Gaffer did his part, but before that, I don’t know. Maybe one day you’ll find out.”

Despite the evil touches of Saurman, the Shire flourished in the fair days following the War of the Ring. Though Frodo left many Summers before the seedlings Sam planted could begin to grow tall and strong, his memory was honored every 22nd of September by Shire Reckoning.

Hobbits would gather in the Party Field under the golden blossoms of the Lady Galadriel’s gift to Samwise, and the mallorn tree glowed bright beneath the starlight, as though Elbereth herself was present to kindle new stars. Into the wee hours of morning the parties raged on, a spectacle full of laughter and dancing.

Without Gandalf and his fireworks, these gatherings paled in comparison to those from the Third Age, but many young Hobbit lads and lasses still could be found sitting around old Samwise the Gardner’s chair, listening to his wild stories about oliphants and elves and giant eagles. Shirefolk remained unconvinced Frodo and Sam’s story was entirely to be trusted, but they enjoyed listening to it all the same, though it was often used as a way of explaining to young Hobbits why no one need go on an adventure at all if they could help it.

“You’ll end up like Old Bilbo and Frodo, talkin’ about dragons and rings,” they’d say in hushed tones over a pint at the newly rebuilt Green Dragon Inn, far enough that Sam’s keen ears couldn’t overhear.

Hobbits, as shown by the Ring-bearer Frodo and his faithful companion Samwise, were much more stout than most would believe given their small statures, and after the passing of evil from their lands, they prospered and rebuilt, perhaps even greater than ever before.

 

Elanor the Fair at the age of 12 in Shire years stood taller than many of her friends. Her angular features were blossoming into less of a Hobbit-lass as the years drew by, but she remained an inquisitive young girl.

Though her father bid she never enter The Old Forest, Elanor did not fear the trees which slept there. She heard the tales of the walking trees first hand by Merry and Pippin, and just as her father had wished for nothing more than to see an elf, Elanor wanted to meet one of those ancient giants from a land and time now passed.

The Old Forest sat as it ever had, with some strange darkness creeping over its sleepy branches and widespread treetops, but there was something changing inside of its depths, as if things were waking up once more from their stupor at last. The vine strewn grounds swept out endlessly, with roots and leaves all smattering the floor and trunks of trees with a soft underbelly. Though the Party Fields and many of the trees in the Shirelands now grew golden and beautiful, the trees in The Old Forest were too ancient and too wild to be as fair as the mellyrn.

As if they were whispering to one another, the trees bent at queer angles and the wind moved very slowly through their clutches, but Elanor pressed on, straining to catch even just one word in the tongue of the woods. It was uncommon to see a vast array of woodland creatures in the forest, but an occasional birdsong seemed to reverberate along the treetops.

Elanor told no one about her adventures, not even her siblings, as they would most assuredly tell her mother. She remembered her father’s warnings about the trickery cast by trees on strangers and outsiders, but she passed untouched by any sort of spell. If Tom Bombadil still walked those paths, she never saw him, but she was certain she heard a jolly laugh now and again echoing down the spaces between oaks and birches.

However, she dared not go in at night, as her father would worry and look for her, and she didn’t wish to share her secret with anyone else just yet. The Old Forest proved best to explore in the late summer, when the days stretched on far into the evening and there was no need to rush home after a long day spent exploring at Meriadoc’s home when her father took her to visit.

The air hung somber and musty, with little light trickling down through the canopy above. Her Hobbit feet were used to the hardness of the forest floor, but it seemed new roots had taken hold since her last foray into the forest. The Withywindle River spilled down through the middle of the treeline, and though she never attempted to touch the rushing depths, it was still a sight to behold.

As she made her way through a new path, Elanor was careful to mark each tree she passed with a small piece of ribbon. It was the only way she could be certain of ever finding her way out, and she wasn’t all that fond of having her hair tied up anyway. After finding a familiar rock, split in half as though struck by lightning, she turned to gaze upon the overgrown path. In her haste, she tripped over the outstretched foot of a proud standing oak and found herself caught by the branch of a neighboring tree.

The branch curved in, pitted and gnarled, against her waist, pulling at her dress and scratching down her arm, and even as she tried to untangle herself from its clutches, it seemed the arm grew tighter and tighter until she could no longer even wriggle within its grasp. In a shivering motion, the tree appeared to be almost alive, tucking her in closer as the a breeze came down from the north of the wood.

“This is a fine mess you’ve landed yourself in, Elanor Gardner!”  She lamented, her arms pinned to her sides as her eyes began to droop, and she suddenly felt sleepy enough to rest for quite a while in the stillness of the forest.

The sticky air felt unusually comfortable and warm, and Elanor found herself yawning and sagging her head on the branch holding her. “I’ll just take a minute to get a quick nap in before supper,” she sighed, closing her eyes fully.

 

Sometime later, as the darkness of early evening started to fall upon the forest, Elanor stirred at the sound of crashing and a foreign tongue speaking slowly. Though she couldn’t understand any of the words, she knew the tone was stern. She blinked her tired eyes several times, trying to wake herself out of the stupor.

The thick branch around her waist loosened its grip and in a sudden and jarring motion she fell to the ground with a resounding thud! Looking up above her, she made out a pair of wide brown eyes and jumped to her feet in alarm. The eyes were set into a long, thin face with holes from the beaks of many hungry and ill-fated birds throughout time, and they gleamed in the early moonlight, reflecting back a honey color. Ancient, sad, and confused, they narrowed as they gazed down at the Hobbit laying before them.

Upon further inspection, Elanor saw that the tree stood almost as tall as the forest itself, with moss covered limbs and a wide trunk, but from the top sprouted long branches with long oval-shaped leaves draping down, framing what could only be its face as if they were lengthy green locks of hair, rustled ever so slightly by the damp breeze.

“Hello?” Elanor stuttered, staring up into the deep set eyes, entranced by the sadness they held. She could see herself clearly reflected and suddenly remembered that she was a very small Hobbit, and had no chance against such a giant tree.

“Hello, Little One,” the tree replied, its voice slow and sleepy, forming the syllables as though they were almost forgotten.

At the sound of the voice, Elanor jumped backward, crashing against the trunk of a motionless tree behind her.

“What are you?” Elanor asked quite rudely, staring up in astonishment.

The tree straightened itself and looked out through the darkness before turning back to the young Hobbit. Her branches swayed as she turned, held in place by a single string of moss wrapped around a stray short branch poking out from the side of her face so as to not obstruct her vision.

“In your tongue I believe my name was once Willowseed, and I am an Entwife.” Willowseed spoke and her voice held much sadness and much pride. “You are too small to be a daughter of the Elves, so what do you call yourself?”

The small Hobbit picked herself back up off the ground and smiled at the old tree happily, “My name is Elanor, daughter of Samwise, and I am a Hobbit from the Shire.”

Willowseed’s eyes widened at this and she gave the small Hobbit the closest thing to a smile she could, “You are far from home then, little Elanor.”

The moonlight was now shining down on the small clearing, reflecting off the wet stones slapped with water from the river. Although the air was still warm, Elanor shivered in the slight breeze rising off the river’s cool surface.

“You know the Shire?” She asked, surprised.

“Know it?” Willowseed said in her slow way, “I helped create it, but that is a long story. One I shall tell while I take you home, Little One. It was hasty to venture in this forest alone.”

Willowseed extended one of her long arms to lift Elanor on to her shoulder, holding her carefully in her grasp, just light enough that she could wriggle around to look her new companion the face. Up close, the Entwife bore all the years of her existence, with pockmarked bark, hardened by constant sunlight.

“How did you create the Shire?” Elanor asked, too excited to withhold her questions.

“Patience,” Willowseed responded. “It is my story, and I should like to tell it slowly. Too many stories are ruined by being told too quickly.”

She began her pace gradually, stepping carefully over tree roots and streams. Her strides were wide, and she hummed to herself as she walked down a wide set path. It appeared to the young Hobbit that the trees were parting to make way for the Entwife.

“What are you singing about?” Elanor was uncomfortable in the silence of The Old Forest, even Willowseed’s verses seemed to be muffled by the heaviness of the air.

Willowseed did not look at the young Hobbit, “My homeland of Fangorn. I left it so long ago I do not even remember the smell of those trees.”

Perking up at the familiar name, Elanor exclaimed, “Fangorn! But that’s where Sam-dad’s friends Merry and Pippin met Treebeard!”

The Entwife shifted her focus to the small child, “Treebeard? Yes… Yes, I once knew him. He was our leader before we left with Fimbrethil.” She looked out to the East sadly, “He was the wisest of the Ents.”

“But he still lives there!” Elanor said quickly, “He is a friend of Hobbitfolk.”

Willowseed’s sadness receded slightly at these words, “Is he? Then all Ents and Entwives must be.”

Elanor grinned up at the old tree, her enthusiasm barely contained as she straightened herself up properly. She couldn’t hold back the excitement of telling her father and Merry and Pippin that the Entwives were not lost after all.

“He said the Entwives were lost! Are there more of you here or in the Shire?” She asked, her words falling from her lips much more quickly than most Entish-speaking trees were accustomed to hearing.

Willowseed stared sadly down, “No, I fear I am the last of the Entwives. When we came to this land, there were many of us. After tending to the Brown Lands, we left those trees to grow strong.” Her words were musical in their calmness to Elanor, but she tried to focus as best she could.

Then Willowseed began her song once more, in a tongue the small Hobbit could understand:  
  


_“To the north, to the north we must go,_

_to plant new trees and watch them grow,_

_under the warm sun where Elves will sing,_

_and with us new life we shall  bring!_  
  


_To the north, to the north we must go,_

_where saplings and seeds we may sew,_

_to care and tend to all living things,_

_ushering in a land of eternal Spring!_  
  


_To the north, to the north we will go,_

_where the fresh waters of rivers flow,_

_and the Entwives will plant and sing,_

_for with us new life we shall bring!”_

As Willowseed ended her slow song, she blinked sadly, “We came with hope, as Yavanna gave us when she put us here. The Ents were too concerned with trees, but we Entwives cared more for the little things, as they are often the most forgotten.

“We cared for the flowers in the Spring and the fruit trees in the Summers, and with our gardens we grew beautiful things, but we were not happy trapped in the confines of a forest where we never felt the sun upon our bark, and so we asked the Ents for a new place to call our own. Treebeard gave us new lands and as we finished there, we wished to go north and see Eriador once again, as we had not been there in almost an age.”

As they walked the forest began to slope upwards, and the air seemed thinner up there. Elanor no longer felt the sleepy mist, and instead listened with bright eyes to Willowseed’s tale,  trying to remember all the words to her songs. As they turned back toward the north and Buckland where Merry, Pippin, and Sam-dad were waiting for her, she watched the stars peek out between the canopy top.

The air began to grow steadily thinner the further Willowseed carried Elanor, the trees whispered as they passed, until the Entwife turned to face them, her old face set in a stern expression. The color of her eyes reflected the moonlight, setting them bright against the darkness of a cloudy night. She hummed to herself again, a joyful tone for an Entwife, and Elanor suddenly felt the air stir with hope.

Her songs were beautiful, but they were long and Elanor could not understand what words Williowseed was speaking as she sang in the drawn-out style of the Ents. It took her a long stretch of time to get all the words out, but Elanor clung to each of them. Occasionally, Willowseed would sing in the common tongue, and Elanor hummed along.

_  
“Yavanna, Yavanna, your grace we will bear,_

_and for rock and tree and bloom we will care,_

_and in the forests the Entwives will stand,_

_for all time to help protect these lands,_  
  


_Yavanna, Yavanna, your song we shall sing_

_as we treasure each new living thing,_

_and as the Elves in their treetops may foresee,_

_the Entwives will plant and love every tree._  
  
  
 _Yavanna, Yavanna, robed in deep green,_

_we will keep the trees tall and waters clean;_

_from Old Fangorn to the borders of Eriador,_

_may the shepherds prosper evermore!”_

Willowseed’s low tone carried through the trees, echoing between them, but The Old Forest seemed less sinister upon her finishing. The undergrowth snaked up trunks of trees to form a canopy for the shepherd as she slowly climbed up long-forgotten pathways formed by the Ents in the Elder Days when they first came to those lands.

“Yavanna is who we Entwives must praise above all others, as she brought us the joy of life and caring for other things. She created us to love all planted things, and protect them from the axes of the Children of the Iluvatar, and the Dwarves who covet stone and do not care for trees.” She said, and her tone was that of only the highest reverence. “When we first came to this place, it was wild and the trees here answered to no one. We taught them to grow strong and tall, and in return they learned to listen. We planted new trees in this forest and made it vast and beautiful under the stars of Varda.

“I do not remember how many lunar cycles we labored under the sun, allowing our bark to dry and our fingers to splinter, but when we finished we looked out upon the hillsides and rejoiced. This land was more beautiful than even the Ents had ever seen, but then news of the Brown Lands burning came to us through other trees, and Fimbrethil left to go and defend our first home. As the youngest of the Entwives, I remained behind to ensure peace in these trees.” Her head hung sadly under the moonlight, each crevice illuminated in full relief.

Elanor listened raptly, her blond curls bouncing with each step Willowseed took, but they were now entering the edge of Buckland, where she knew her father would be waiting.

“When the little-folk came down, I was glad, because they seemed to love trees even more than the Elves. They wanted to grow things, and they never took more than necessary.” Her great face stretched into the closest thing to a smile she could manage. “They were queer folk, but when they built their homes, they went under Arda, but not with the greed of Dwarves.”

“My Sam-dad said we live underground because, ‘Hobbits have no business going up trees,’” Elanor giggled, trying to imitate her father’s gentle tone.

Willowseed barked out a noise, which might have one been a laugh in the tongue of Entish.

“And here you sit, Little One, in my branches, as close to the stars as you could want. I watched from The Old Forest as darkness fell upon these borders, but the Little Folk are not so easily defeated,” She said.

“My Sam-dad threw out those nasty Men and grew lots of tall things from their ashes,” Elanor said brightly.

The trees surrounding them groaned under the fells of the wind, which whistled between them like a birdsong. If she squinted, Elanor imagined the trees bending to bow in reverence to Willowseed. The river rushed next to them, and the spray from the current licked at the Entwife’s feet.

“Then he is a friend of all Ents,” Willowseed said slowly. “He is blessed indeed if it is true he planted one of the mellyrn, for those trees do not easily grow for any but the Elves.  
“Pinefoot, the Ent half to me, loved the mallorn more than any other tree in this world. He cared for them even before I was an Enting, and it was he who showed the Elves how to tend to them. When he left Lorien, he carried a heavy sadness he never forgot. He would have gazed upon your tree with deep honor.”

Willowseed had reached the threshold to the forest, and the dim lights of Merry’s home glowed on the horizon. They approached the lights slowly, but faint voices could be heard on the air as they drew closer to the end of the treeline.

Cries of “Elanorellë!” “Elanor!” “El!” came upon the soft breeze and Elanor felt guilty for straying so far from her father. Willowseed strode toward where the voices seemed to be carried from. When they reached close enough Elanor shouted back.

“Sam-dad! Merry! Pippin!” Her voice rung out high and clear in the night air.

“You are all very hasty folk,” Willowseed huffed, picking up her pace until they at last cleared the treeline and stumbled upon three worried Hobbits.

Samwise gazed up in wonder, for he had never seen an Ent, and as his eyes landed upon his daughter, he exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.  Merry and Pippin, however, had seen Ents and did not hide neither their delight nor their surprise.

“Are you and Ent?” Pippin asked, rather bravely.

“I,” Willowseed began, and she drew herself up to her full height, “am an Entwife.”

Elanor grinned down to her father, whose mouth had fallen open involuntarily from shock. Merry and Pippin glanced at each other and back up to the Entwife, taking in her face, which sat very similar and yet so different than Treebeard’s had.

“The Little One told me you are friends of the Ents, and so I shall let you pass back through these lands without fear of trees.” She spoke, her tone heavy with the years she bore. “But I will not remain here.”

“Where will you go?” Elanor asked, saddened by losing Willowseed so soon after having found her.

Willowseed’s eyes glanced toward the South, “I will go and find Treebeard, and perhaps Pinefoot, whom I have not seen in an age. I wish I brought better tidings, but I have hope the other Entwives will return someday.”

She reached one of her gnarled hands up to her shoulder and pulled Elanor down with a gentle ease. Sitting the Hobbit-lass at her father’s side, she turned to Merry and Pippin, and her eyes held mischief.

“You have taken the Ent draught, and it has blessed you. I wish you both peace.” She said, bowing her head slightly to them.

In return, the two Hobbits also bowed low. Merry’s voice piped up from the ground, “Thank you, m’lady.”

Elanor clutched her father’s hand as they watched Willowseed turn to face her journey to the South. The late evening air gave way to morning as she began to hum another of her ancient songs, which was long forgotten to those left in the Shire.

“Sam-dad, do you think someday I’ll see her again?” Elanor asked, staring up at her father with wide and hopeful eyes. Samwise grinned down at her in a familiar and comforting way saved only for his children.

“I don’t rightfully know, Elanorellë, but you’ll have your own adventure to tell someday,” He said in a soothing tone. He scooped her up onto his back quickly, causing her to giggle in response. “And now we have to explain to your mother where you got off to in the dark forest, and she won’t be near as kind as your old Sam-dad was.”

The four Shirelings made their way back toward Merry’s home, and the lamps hanging outside were bright against the darkness that came before the tidings of dawn. Elanor felt her eyes drooping against her father’s shoulders.

“Besides, Old Mr. Bilbo used to say, ‘It’s a dangerous business, going out your door.’” He said, and shared a secret smile with Merry and Pippin, who both knew exactly how dangerous stepping onto a path could be.

However, Elanor was already softly snoring, her small hands clutching to her father lightly. He smiled at her and patted her hand before looking back to his companions.

“We best be getting on, but I wish Mr. Frodo could’ve seen the Entwife,” Sam said, and a sudden sadness struck him.

Merry and Pippin each embraced him in a goodbye.

“Are you sure she doesn’t have some Took in her?” Pippin asked, grinning.

“I’m afraid it’s not Tookishness, Pip. She’s too much like our dear Sam.” Merry quipped, already turning up the fork to his Hobbit hole. Pippin followed behind him, waving one last goodbye to his old friend.

Sam made his way home slowly, and it was late in the afternoon before he reached his familiar hole, with Elanor’s hand in his as they walked into their garden to continue harvesting for the autumn season.

“Well, we’re home, Sam-dad.” She said brightly.

Sam smiled down to her, leaning into his gate and sighing with contentment.

“Yes, Elanorellë, we are.”

 

 


End file.
